


Want (At the End of the Day)

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [37]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fantasizing, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: Even before their relationship began, Angela featured prominently in Fareeha’s fantasies, and tonight is no different; Fareeha is thinking of her girlfriend even before she slips her hand into her sleep shorts, thinking of how, earlier that day, Angela had nervously licked her own lips before leaning into kiss her, thinking of how comfortably Angela’s body had slotted against hers as she found herself pressed to the wall, thinking of how nice it was when Angela nudged one thick thigh between Fareeha’s legs, lifting up to press it against her center.Or,Fareeha fantasizes about her girlfriend while masturbating.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealfarts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealfarts/gifts).



> so this is partially based on sealfarts' art [here](http://lickumu.tumblr.com/post/169412975461/hey-bunny-girls-are-cute), specifically the bottom left image. im gay & theres never enough masturbation content so seeing that img Inspired me lmao
> 
> when chronically writers blocked, write smut, i guess?
> 
> also sigh im technically like half an hr late posting this bc went way over my intended wordcount. oh well. better a whole third section and 40 mins late than on time and 1k words shorter, i think.

Never has Fareeha been a patient woman; that is one reason, among many, why she did not follow her mother’s lead and become a sniper.  Waiting is not pleasant for her, does not come easily—and she has done more than enough of it, in her life, waiting to join Overwatch, waiting to be recognized as an adult more than capable of making her own decisions and forging her own path, waiting to be recognized for her own merits rather than her family name, to be seen as more than just Ana Amari’s daughter.  Waiting is something that, generally, Fareeha hates to do, but she has grown good at it, after so many years, and she can admit that some things are worth waiting for.

(Well, in some situations, Fareeha has grown good at waiting.  She suspects, however, she will always be the first to break an awkward silence, when speaking—or, rather, not speaking—with someone as equally stubborn as herself.)

Angela is such a one.

For Angela, Fareeha can wait, will wait, is waiting.  Indeed, she has waited already, for Angela to realize that she was attracted to women, and then for Angela to become comfortable enough in her identity to act upon such attraction, and she is waiting still—waiting for Angela to be ready to become sexually involved with another woman, rather than only romantically.

(In truth, she thinks that if Angela is never ready, never wants a sexual relationship, she would be okay with that, too, because in so many other ways they are so compatible, better each other so much, that to not have sex would not be so great a sacrifice—but Angela has made comments which certainly indicate a degree of sexual interest, and in either case, she is waiting still for confirmation.)

Fareeha is content to wait, because Angela satisfies her in a thousand other ways, but _fuck_ , the frequency with which she has been taking matters into her own hands is, well, getting out of hand.

(It is a fortunate thing that she has that particular thought whilst alone—she does not want to explain the way her lips twitch in a tiny smile at her own pun to anyone else.  That would be, frankly, too embarrassing to talk about, and she is certain Angela would be displeased to hear she mentioned the nature of their sex life—or lack thereof—even to their friends.)

Even before their relationship began, Angela featured prominently in Fareeha’s fantasies, and tonight is no different; Fareeha is thinking of her girlfriend even before she slips her hand into her sleep shorts, thinking of how, earlier that day, Angela had nervously licked her own lips before leaning into kiss her, thinking of how comfortably Angela’s body had slotted against hers as she found herself pressed to the wall, thinking of how nice it was when Angela nudged one thick thigh between Fareeha’s legs, lifting up to press it against her center.

In reality, things ended there, with a gasp from Fareeha seeming to break Angela’s trance, but in her mind it continues, and as she grinds against the heel of her palm she imagines that it is Angela’s thigh she is rubbing against, imagines she is not on her back, in bed, but still pressed to the wall, Angela’s breaths comingling with hers, and the hand on her breast is not her own at all, but Angela’s slightly smaller one.

What kind of lover, she wonders, is Angela? 

If she wanted it, would Angela be rough with her?  Angela kisses sweetly enough, it is true, but Fareeha has seen the fire in her eyes when she argues, has seen her intensity on the battlefield; she knows that if Angela so desired she would be more than capable of taking control—and for her part, Fareeha imagines she would enjoy relinquishing it.

(Sometimes, it is hard to be Fareeha, to be Pharah, to be an Amari, to meet all of the expectations that accompany such a name—sometimes, it is nice to let another decide things for her, to take all of her worries away, if she trusts them enough, and Angela she trusts with her life.)

She covers her own mouth in an effort—mostly reflex, a habit formed of years in shared quarters—to be silent as possible, but then removes it just as quickly.  In this fantasy, where Angela has her pinned to a wall and orders Fareeha to take her own pleasure, to grind herself to completion for Angela’s amusement, her girlfriend would want to hear her, every whimper, every whine, every gasp. 

For her part, Fareeha thinks she would like to be put on display like that, to be allowed to make a mess of herself and even then, not be found wanting, but be seen as beautiful.

She imagines Angela saying the word, her voice not so sweet like it is in public but more raw, more honest, made husky by arousal and emotion both and—

—And she comes, too soon, too suddenly, her orgasm over nearly as quickly as it began and utterly unsatisfying. 

Even alone as she is, it is a bit embarrassing, and Fareeha nearly stops there, but she knows she could keep going, and the second orgasm is always better than the first, in any case, and clearly she needs it, anyway, if she came after so little.

She shucks her sleep shorts and begins again, slower now, imagining something gentler. 

This time, it is she who is in control, telling Angela exactly how it is she likes to be touched.  She has seen how Angela lights up when others praise her work, and wonders if her girlfriend is always so eager to please.

Would it excite Angela, bringing Fareeha over the edge?  Would she flush in the cute way she does when complimented unexpectedly if Fareeha hissed out _Yes, just like that…_?

Fareeha parts her labia with the fingers of one hand, giving the other better access to her clit, and pictures Angela doing the same, flushed with arousal and pride both as she holds Fareeha open and obeys Fareeha’s request to lick, tongue teasing in slow circles just around the outside of Fareeha’s clit.  If this were really happening, she thinks she would wrap the fingers of her prosthetic hand in Angela’s soft hair, would tug it gently in encouragement—that she knows Angela would like, and her hips twitch remembering the way her girlfriend practically _purred_ the first time Fareeha pulled her hair while they kissed.

How would Angela react to that, Fareeha wonders. Would she try to hold Fareeha's hips down, to stop her from doing so again? Would she order Fareeha to still, switching their roles with little warning? Would she not react at all, and focus instead on the task at hand, unperturbed?

Of all the ideas, Fareeha is not sure which she likes best—anything her girlfriend might do in response seems perfect, so long as it is Angela who does it.

(There are many things to which this statement might apply, in truth. With Angela, even mundane occurrences are better, somehow. Sex will almost certainly be included in that number—Fareeha has always preferred intimacy with people she loves and trusts, and Angela is both beloved and trusted.)

And what might Angela do to provoke such a reaction from Fareeha in the first place? She pictures Angela's free hand reaching up her torso, cold fingers trailing up her side, the phantom sensation provoking a shiver in reality and fantasy both. That hand, then, would play with her breasts, and this Fareeha knows Angela's preferences in already, the way her girlfriend likes to hold her beasts, to cup them and feel the weight before finally allowing herself to knead them, and Fareeha can imagine how that would translate to further action, what it might mean if Angela were to toy with a nipple.

If she closes her eyes, she can feel it, the sensation a combination of a remembrance of how other lovers have touched her in the past and prediction, in one. One cold finger traces slowly around her nipple, not making contact, quite, but providing enough sensation to her areola that she stiffens nonetheless, and then, and only then, would Angela flick it, a burst of sensation which is enough to make Fareeha jolt, but is only fleeting and lends no real satisfaction.

Neither of her hands have moved upwards during this fantasy, but she feels it nonetheless, responds as if it were real, bites her lip and wonders if Angela would chastise her for it, or if she would be so intent on bringing Fareeha over the edge that she would not notice that her lover is trying to keep silent. Out of respect for imaginary-Angela, Fareeha lets her mouth fall open and releases a little groan.

While she pictures this, she mirrors the action with the fingers at her clit, teases herself, touching lightly, the way she likes.

(In truth, she does not know what Angela's preference would be, here, has no frame of reference. For a doctor, she is surprisingly skittish about discussing sex. Even when the two of them were only friends, Fareeha's bawdy jokes were met with laughter but never returned in kind. She hopes she remembers, later, the thought she has now, that she ought to ask Angela to talk her through things, the first time they are intimate, because it will encourage Angela to be more comfortable with communicating her desires and save Fareeha the embarrassment of doing the wrong thing, both.)

It does not take much pressure to bring her over the edge, it never has, so she is careful to not touch herself too directly for too long—this time, she wants to savor things more than she did with her first orgasm, and she imagines Angela would like to draw this out, anyway.

Then again, maybe Angela would not let up on her, would give her more than enough stimulation to come and expect her to hold on, to hold back until an acceptable amount of time had passed—she increases the pressure on her clit as she imagines as much, tosses her head in response to the feeling, face pressing into the pillow as she pants open mouthed.

She could come right now—and easily—if she wanted too, knows well enough what she likes, but she imagines Angela gently reassuring her, telling her she can hold on just a little longer, and Fareeha so hates to disappoint.

A tremor runs the length of her body as she presses her thumb down on her clit, and she focuses on just holding on a minute longer, tries her hardest not to think about the feeling of her building orgasm, but instead on the shaking in her legs, the sweat at her brow, the thudding of her heart, and it is a distraction but barely, barely.

_One minute_ , she imagines Angela telling her, _You can do that for me, surely._

(Perhaps, of the two of them, it is not Angela who is eager to please.)

In her head she counts backwards from sixty, balancing on a razor edge, knowing that if she lets up too much the orgasm will fade away, keeping herself as close as she possibly can without actually coming.

_45_ and she imagines she can feel Angela smirk against her, pleased to see how easily she is coming apart.

_30_ and she feels her thighs—already sore from her workout early in the day—protest at having been held taut for so long, wonders what Angela would think, feeling the tremors on the sides of her head, and nearly comes right then.

_15_ and she can feel herself starting to pulse, thinks _no, no, just a bit longer, please._

_10_ and she is getting a bit dizzy from holding her breath.

_5_ and she knows it will be over any moment now, that she cannot stop herself any longer.

_4_ and she digs her heels into the mattress in anticipation.

_3_ and she has to breathe in, finally.

_2_ and her back arches off of the bed.

_1_ and her legs snap closed and she comes so hard she sees white around the edges of her vision, head spinning and hips jerking in rhythm with her fingers.

As far as orgasms go, it is far, far better than the first indeed, and she keeps touching herself throughout it. Normally, she would stop, would remove her hand and fist it in the sheets, but she imagines Angela would help her work through it, would take her time guiding Fareeha down slowly.

Or, in theory Fareeha's arousal would be receding now, but the aftershocks of her orgasm have synced up well enough with the movements of her hand that she realizes that, if she really wanted to, she could go again.

Her back is sticking uncomfortably to the sheets, because she has been sweating, and the part of her which is sensible suggests that she stop, but she is, despite everything, still turned on, and when she glances at the clock and sees it is not yet 23:00, she thinks _Well, why not_?

After the second orgasm, she is a bit too sensitive for it to be comfortable to keep touching her clit, so she shifts to sit up instead, and slips two fingers insider herself.  Like this, she has better leverage, and is up off of the uncomfortably sweaty bedsheet.

Even better, she knows that, if Angela could see her, she would paint an enticing picture, breasts jutting out as her back arches, flush extending from high on her cheeks all the way down past her collarbones, visual line broken only by the t-shirt she has hiked up over her own breasts.  It is not hubris, she thinks, to know that she looks attractive like this, is just a part of the fantasy, where she can imagine Angela sees her, waiting, can imagine the look on her face, the _wanting_ plain on it.

(Even before the two of them began a relationship, before Angela came to the conclusion that she might, maybe, in this one instance, be attracted to other women, Fareeha often caught her staring—but her gaze is always loving, admiring, and while that is all well and good, Fareeha wants to know what it looks like when Angela stares in _lust_.  For now, she is forced to imagine it, to formulate the expression in her mind’s eye based on what she knows of Angela’s other expressions.)

She imagines Angela crawls across the bedspread to her, on hands and knees, straddles one of her thighs, and slips her hand inside Fareeha.  When she moves her inside herself, she wonders how Angela’s fingers would feel differently from her own, tries to change her rhythm to something she imagines Angela would like better, moving her fingers in time with how she imagines Angela might grind against her.

At first, she moves slowly, imagines Angela might want to take her time—but she is impatient, and there is more appeal in picturing what her girlfriend might look like closer to the edge, so she picks up her pace, rolls her hips into her hand with each thrust, pictures Angela rocking into the movement, head bowed and brow furrowed, getting close but not quite having enough, imagines all the little indelicate noises she might make in a situation such as this.

(When Angela thinks she is alone, or is deep in concentration, she makes a little _hmph_ in the back of her throat, reading test results or papers she does not like.  It is easy enough to picture that same sound as a huff, a little grunt as she moves against Fareeha—easy and _so good._ )

Fareeha could take her time, again, could draw this out, but she imagines instead that Angela has been waiting this whole time, and has finally grown impatient, and she does not slow her fingers at all, just keeps her eyes shut and wonders what it would really be like to have her girlfriend pressed up against her, skin on skin, both of them impatient to find their release, both of them desperate for it.

Would Angela beg?  Fareeha is not sure—certainly, Angela never even approaches begging outside of the bedroom, but then, that means little enough.  Unsure, she instead imagines Angela telling her how it is she is feeling in the moment, a chorus of _yes_ and _so good_ and _you’re perfect, so wet for me_ and whatever other praise Fareeha’s mind conjures in the moment.

It brings her close to a third peak quickly, thinking of the praise, imagining Angela panting those words into her ear, breasts brushing against her own as the two of them come closer and closer to the edge.

She wants to imagine what she would say in return, but when the heel of her palm presses on her clit while her fingers curl inside of herself she realizes she is too far gone to carry on an imaginary conversation, anymore.  Everything that comes to mind is the sort of near-orgasm babbling that she is embarrassed to succumb to, in reality.

Instead, she settles for repeating Angela’s name, and it is not quite as dignified as she would like, but she thinks Angela would want to hear her, even now, thinks silence would displease her, for some reason.

(It is one way, she supposes, of being connected—she cannot imagine Angela will want to look her in the eye, as she seems to avoid eye contact whenever possible, in any situation—and if she cannot picture looking Angela in the eyes in a moment like this, there must be something, and that something is—)

“— _Angela,_ ” says she, “ _Angela, Angela, Angela._ ”

(A different sort of litany than the one Angela is used to hearing invoked, Fareeha is certain.)

“ _Angela,_ ” she repeats, on each thrust, quiet, still, scarcely more than an emphatic whisper, and she is so close, she can feel it, building inside of her, she just needs a little more before she can come, just a little push to put her over the edge—

—And she pictures Angela coming apart on top of her, slumping into her shoulder, and that is enough to push her over the edge too, groaning Angela’s name as she does so, barely holding herself in a sitting position with her free arm.

_Shit_ , she thinks when she is done, and flops back onto her bed, thoroughly sated.

Perhaps she does not like waiting—and yes, she would prefer not to—but it is not, she supposes, always so terrible.  Even if the wait were not nearly so pleasant as this, it would be worth it, and as it stands, she is more than satisfied to do so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just barely in time... cause i got distracted... by my gf... on valentines day... yeah
> 
> anyway i let my twitter followers vote on a vday fic and 42% of the vote went to "masturbation fic ch 2" so here we are. angela nuts. too bad bc y'all could have had coming out fic. or fluff. or baby fic. WELL, they made this choice so thats that.

In many ways, Fareeha Amari is an ideal partner, is a good balance to Angela’s own shortcomings and more extreme qualities, is kind, funny, and has similar enough values and past experiences to Angela’s that they are able to understand one another almost intuitively.  For so many reasons, Angela could not have asked for anyone better to share her life with, to find love with.  With so many things which are right, which make them seem a good match, Angela ought to have nothing to worry about.

Yet, worry she does.

When Fareeha is considerate, Angela worries.  It is only a little thing—too used, now, to sleeping in the buff in her own private quarters, she forgot pyjamas, and Fareeha lent her a t-shirt to sleep in—but now she finds herself worrying that she takes too much, that it is too often Fareeha who cares for her in their relationship, and not often enough she who cares for Fareeha.  Such things ought, after all, to be reciprocal.  And what if she cannot?  What if, after spending every working hour caring for others, she does not have the energy to give Fareeha the care and attention she deserves?

When Fareeha teases her gently about only wanting to get Fareeha’s own clothes off, passing Angela the t-shirt off of her back and leaving herself in only an undershirt and pants, Angela wonders how it is that Fareeha could ever find her attractive.  Like this, lit by a lamp set on the ground, shadows flickering across her face, Fareeha seems almost like a statue, strong jaw and brow reminiscent of a Hellenic sculptor’s muse, soft curves of her body all the more marked for the contrast.  She is beautiful and Angela—well, she cannot see herself, but she need not look to know that she has a sunburn across her face, mosquito bites up and down her legs, and her hair has been made wild by the humidity, to say nothing of the parts of herself which are usual: the bags under her eyes, her sharpness in all the wrong places, the signs that she is decidedly closer, now, to forty than to thirty. 

When Fareeha gives her a kiss before heading out for her turn to stand watch, Angela’s biggest worry rears its head.  Not only does Fareeha somehow, for some reason, love her, too, but Fareeha _wants_ her, wants her in a way Angela has always been afraid of her ability to reciprocate.

(Before Fareeha, Angela’s—admittedly limited—dating history has included only men, and only cis men at that.  Such a thing hardly prepared her for the reality of being in a relationship with a woman, not emotionally and _certainly_ not sexually.)

Already, they have been more-or-less in a relationship for nearly a year, and while Fareeha knew that Angela was not immediately ready to enter into a sexual relationship, while she said that she had no problem with waiting, Angela worries that eventually Fareeha will grow tired of waiting for her, will want to find someone more willing—able?—to pursue sexual intimacy. 

Although, perhaps willingness is not the problem.  When they kiss one another, when Fareeha holds her, Angela _wants_ to do more, wants to desire Fareeha and to be desired in return.  The problem is, once again, down to a lack of experience.

What does it feel like, to want another woman?

(Now that she and Fareeha are together, both Mei and Lena have insisted that they _knew_ Angela was not straight, that she was attracted to women, that they could see it.  How?  How when Angela could not?  What did they know of her feelings that she did not, what did they see in her that she still _cannot_?  What if she has felt this attraction to other women for her entire life, and somehow is still unable to recognize it in herself?)

What would it feel like to want Fareeha Amari?

Usually, when Angela touches herself, she does not think of anyone, man or woman, imagines only her own response to a lover who does not exist, imagines that the hands she puts on herself are not her own but someone else’s, and that the pleas which fall from her lips are for them; they have no face, they have no name, and they need neither.

But what if, instead, she tried to picture Fareeha? 

It is a strange thing to realize: Angela has never _tried_ to imagine herself in a sexual situation with another woman.  Even men she has only imagined in the ways society taught her to, and not really on her own impetus.  Why bother, when she can satisfy herself just fine without doing so?  Why bother, when she is afraid of what the result might be?

(For a long time, she thinks, she _was_ afraid of potential attraction to other women, worried that, being trans, she would somehow be less of a woman if she did not perform a very normative sort of femininity, attraction to men and all.  And now—now she is afraid that she will try, and picturing herself in a sexual situation with Fareeha will _not_ excite her, and she will discover suddenly that all she feels for Fareeha is not love, after all, but only the deep friendship the Angela of a decade ago would have so easily dismissed it as.  Strange, how two opposite fears can paralyze her in the same way.)

But now, made restless as she is by nervous energy, surrounded by the smell of Fareeha which lingers on her shirt, she finds the thought harder to push from her mind.

Normally, in her fantasies, things begin slowly, her partner’s hand or lips teasing her, trailing down her body towards her pelvis, only to double back at the last moment, not touching where she would like but instead moving back upwards to tease at her breasts, and downwards again, until at last she finds herself forced to admit that she wants this, wants them, and touching her only then.  When she pictures this, she moves her hand in time, feels herself shiver as her fingers ghost over the sensitive patch of skin above her left hip, feels breath hitch when she flicks at a nipple, feels her arousal build with nothing to be done for it.

Fareeha, she imagines, would not tease her this way, would instead be more direct.  Before they even began, Angela would be aroused, would need far less teasing, for she cannot imagine Fareeha doing anything by half, let alone foreplay.

(If the tales Angela has overheard Fareeha telling about her days in the Air Force are any indication, she is quite the experienced and talented lover.  Normally, this worries her—what if she does not measure up?—but now, one hand kneading at her own breast, imagining just what it is that Fareeha might do with all it is that she has learned, now it is less intimidating and more appealing.)

Instead, she imagines that even when teasing Fareeha would be more direct, would run her fingers over Angela’s panties, would feel her warmth through them, would press enough that Angela could feel it but not enough so that she would get any relief from the touch.  She does the same to herself as she pictures it, draws her hand back when she moves her hips to press into herself, and nearly whines before remembering where she is, remembering who, exactly, might overhear.

Then, Fareeha would move away from her center, would tease at her breasts, would mover her mouth to such at Angela’s nipples and—if Angela is exceptionally lucky—might even scrape at them with her teeth.

She imagines, however, that Fareeha would not do so unless Angela begged her to, unless Angela stroked her ego by reminding her just how very _wanted_ she is, how _talented,_ how Angela _needs_ her and _please, Fareeha, you feel so good, yes yes yes—_ for if there is anything Angela has learned, it is that Fareeha responds well to praise. 

(So perhaps they might fit well together, after all, Angela wanting to beg, to say that she _wants_ , to confess not only to herself but to another person all of the things she has never allowed herself to feel, and Fareeha soaking up the words, the praise, basking in the fact that she is needed.)

Only when Angela grew impatient, only when she grew desperate, squirming beneath her, only then would she proceed, or so Angela hopes. 

But, maybe not, maybe Fareeha would instead kiss her with an aching tenderness, would be so, so gentle that Angela would not be able, even, to beg, would feel the words die in her throat the way she does when Fareeha is so soft with her in other situations, and be content, then, for Fareeha to take her time, content to let things build slowly, if only Fareeha would continue to kiss her as if she were the center of her universe.  Perhaps Angela would not have to ask at all, and, when she was ready, Fareeha would slip a hand down between the two of them and touch her clit just as gently, as if they had all the time in the world, letting her orgasm build slowly until, at last, it finally overtook her.

Both situations are appealing, in truth, but when she slips a hand inside her panties she finds she is—maddeningly—not quite yet wet enough to proceed, despite feeling very much aroused.

On base, in her own quarters, this is never a problem—she has a bottle of personal lubricant in her bedside table, and there is no one to notice if she needs it, is no one to _care_ , no one to have to reassure that really, she does want this, it is only that sometimes her body and her mind are not quite so in sync as she wishes they were.

(The same could be said about many other aspects of her life, and that is another anxiety she has with sex; for so long, she has viewed her own body as her enemy—for not fitting her gender, for needing sleep, for _this_ —that she worries that if Fareeha were as kind about it as she is about everything else about Angela, as accepting and loving, that she might cry.  That would be only a further betrayal, to cry in front of Fareeha, and undoubtedly ruin the moment.)

Of course, when running up against this problem, she might simply distract from it by taking care of Fareeha first.  While she pictures it, Angela keeps teasing herself, and if the sensations on her body and the scene in her mind do not match up, it does not matter so much.  At least she can smell Fareeha, covered as she is in Fareeha’s t-shirt, and she imagines what it would be like to not only smell her, but to taste her, to feel Fareeha’s thighs quake on either side of her head as she brings Fareeha to orgasm once, twice, three times.

This is, of course, not something she has any experience with, so it is not something which has appeared in her fantasies before, but she is pleasantly surprised to find that she _is_ responding to the thought of it, her heart beating faster and breath catching in her throat as she thinks of how beautiful Fareeha would be as she unraveled beneath Angela’s tongue, sweat clinging to her brow in the same way that it does when she catches Angela staring in the gym and smirks at her, thinks of what it would be like for _Fareeha_ to be the one begging, just as Angela has always been the one to do in her fantasies, thinks of what it would mean for her to be the one praised and to be so _wanted_.

Suddenly, Angela realizes that this is something she wants, after all, and desperately so.

(Perhaps Mei and Lena were right, and she wanted this all along, but never allowed herself to imagine wanting it, to imagine what this might feel like, and perhaps not—perhaps she did not want this, before now, not until she and Fareeha reached the point in their relationship, the depth of feelings for one another, that they currently harbor, or perhaps she had to reach the point where she finds herself now, of acceptance of her own being, in order to want anyone like this.  Perhaps it does not matter, given that she is finally, _finally_ wet enough to touch herself properly.)

Picturing Fareeha come, imagining what it would sound like, Angela can no longer hold off, and slips a hand inside her—decidedly unsexy, but comfortable, and _damp_ —panties and slip one finger inside of herself, then two.

Usually, she is not gentle with herself, is too impatient and frustrated by this point to put things off any longer, but somehow she imagines Fareeha would be, and so she starts off gently, only applying the slightest pressure to her clit with the heel of her palm and moving in and out of herself slowly, taking the time to notice how it feels, to imagine what might be different if her hands were Fareeha’s.

(Her fingers are calloused in different places than Angela’s, for one thing, fingers slightly shorter but thicker, and _oh_ now is not the time to be thinking about such things, because she is getting close, she can feel it—)

All pretense of going slowly flies out the window when she wonders what it would feel like if it was Fareeha’s mouth at her clit, instead of her hand, and she has to move her second hand down to rub herself—hard—because she is starting to get too worked up and she needs more, needs _something—_

Her skin is hot, and she feels like she is burning from the inside out, and she has half a mind to kick off the blanket on top of her, but to do that she would have to remove one of her hands and she is close enough now that she does not want to, not even for a moment.  The impulse to beg returns, and she almost does, moans out the beginning of a word before, abruptly, remembering where she is and that she must be quiet, lest she is caught.

 _Please_ , she thinks, _please, please, please_ not sure if she is begging not to have been heard or for the Fareeha in her fantasies to push her over the edge.

(But maybe being caught would not be such a bad thing, if it were Fareeha— _no_.  Like this, in Fareeha’s t-shirt, in their shared tent, when she is meant to be sleeping before her turn at watch, it would be mortifying, and while she is not entirely certain shame would be a turn off, for her, this is neither the time nor the place.)

In case Fareeha did hear, she rolls over onto her side as if she were asleep, so that if she is checked on she has at least _some_ measure of plausible deniability, albeit not much, and bites at her lip in a desperate ploy to stay silent.

At this angle, she can reach deeper inside herself and it is hard not to whimper as she finds the perfect angle, her whole body coiling further and further in upon itself.  She imagines that the change in angle is because Fareeha moved her for better access, grabbed her by the love handles and foisted her body upwards until she moved her legs over Fareeha’s shoulders.  From that angle, she could easily look Fareeha in the eye while this happened, could see the _look_ Fareeha gives her, sometimes, so full of love, and return it, if she could only keep her eyes open against the sensation.

If she begged, she wonders, would Fareeha be rough with her?  Would she feel teeth scrape against her clit, and Fareeha’s free hand pinch at her nipples—she far gone enough, now, that picturing it she _can_ feel it, and she imagines what she would have to say to coax Fareeha to do so, _please,_ and _harder_ , and _more, more, more._

Outside the tent, she can hear footsteps as Fareeha walks by, measured and careful, and she ought to still her hand, ought to stop moving entirely to ensure she is quiet but she _cannot_ , not at this point, so instead she bites her lip and screws her eyes shut and tries to hold off on the orgasm that is inevitable, now, just for a moment longer as Fareeha passes.  Her breathing is ragged enough, by now, that she has to hold her breath, but even that does not stop her from moving, not when she is this close.

(Even if she tried to be still, she does not think she could stop the jerking of her hips—she is so, _so_ close.)

Her whole body feels tight, and hot, and she knows she will have to blame the terrible muggy weather, later, for how sweaty Fareeha’s shirt has gotten, and she can feel herself start to pulse around her fingers and thinks _not yet, not yet not yet not yet—_

And then Fareeha’s footsteps fade, and she is grateful for it, and the voice in her head that tells her it is okay, now, to come is not her own at all, but Fareeha’s, and she very nearly _does_ give herself away, then, has to fight to stay silent as her whole body trembles and her mind goes blank.

When she starts to relax, little tremors still causing her legs to twitch, still, in the aftermath, she almost huffs a laugh—apparently the question of whether she _can_ experience sexual attraction to women is quite resolved. 

A part of her still worries, of course—worries that theory and practice are not the same, worries that she will embarrass herself, somehow, worries that Fareeha will ask why she changed her mind so suddenly—but the greater part of her, the part which is not wondering why it never occurred to her to just _try_ and imagine herself with another woman, that part of her is optimistic, is excited and hopeful for after this mission, is ready, and more than, to try and express the depths of her love for Fareeha physically, rather than just with her words and her other actions.

A part of her still worries, but worrying is always harder with Fareeha by her side, and she imagines it will be harder still with the two of them pressed so close to one another that their hair catches in one another’s.

A part of her still worries, but perhaps she should not have—Fareeha said she would wait, after all, would wait forever if need be, and while it is good, now, that she will not have to, Angela never really doubted the truth of that statement.

Still, she thinks as she nods off, whether her girlfriend expects it or not, it will be nice to do something that will make Fareeha happy, now that she knows she is ready, and she is certain it will be all the better for Fareeha having waited until she was certain she would be comfortable doing it.

Fareeha is an ideal girlfriend and—for once—that is a comfort to Angela, and not a source of anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah. idk i imagine angela, having only realized shes into women at age 37, has a lot to grapple w re: sex & desiring other women. and fareeha would tbh not mind if angela was ace and NEVER wanted to fuck her. but angela is still a little stressed abt the whole thing anyway bc u know what? coming out IS stressful, esp coming out to urself. u gotta learn to accept that the things u want are okay & thats not always a quick process. but shes working on it. accepting & loving urself is hard but she WILL do it, sooner or later
> 
> (okay corny loving urself pun)
> 
> anyway, hope u all had a great vday. my gf DID laugh when i referred to going down on her but then not staying the night as "dining and dashing" which is good. bc that was a Risky joke to make i feel
> 
> but its 23:56 so i gotta wrap this a/n up. love y'all!

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. im alive. writing this today literally doubled my 2018 wordcount to date, bc so far this yr ive  
> \- been stranded on the wrong side of the country for several days bc of a blizzard  
> \- had to step in for a coworker who had to go on maternity leave 3mos early w literally a week to learn her lesson plan  
> \- gotten the flu  
> 20gayteen not off to a great start and im only two wks in lol. except that i met my dream girl so uh maybe a good start. except shes moving to nigeria in 4mos. sigh
> 
> title is a 1d ref, as always, this time "at the end of the day"
> 
> and uh. yeah. thats abt it. there may or may not be a forthcoming ch2 feat angela thinking abt fareeha. bc im gay and i like things in pairs.
> 
> anyway r&r as they said on ffn! by which i mean if u leave a comment ill love u forever


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